


Descent into Darkness

by Robin_Mask



Category: The Lion King (1994)
Genre: Anthropomorphic, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Drama, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Personification, Rape, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-24 21:55:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2597786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_Mask/pseuds/Robin_Mask
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scar knew so little about the duty that he owed to others, that he owed to himself. Mufasa would teach him. He would build Scar up and teach him about the meaning of 'worth', even if Scar refused to believe it, because that's what brothers did . . . they loved unconditionally. They loved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Injustice Deliciously Squared

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VickyVoltaire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VickyVoltaire/gifts).



> A series of interconnected one-shots. 
> 
> All characters are personified.

# Injustice Deliciously Squared

 

Oh, sometimes his brother could be so _very_ frustrating . . .

 

Scar allowed his fingers to gracefully move over a family photo. The silver frame was cold to the touch, the gilded pattern rather elegant and yet rough beneath his fingertips, and as he stroked its surface he smiled to see how the dust had been disturbed upon the desk. Did he _really_ think that Scar wouldn’t notice? It was so obvious, like a deep cut across the filth and dirt that marked it forever, and the only thing to do would be to move the frame back into its exact position or to wipe away the dust forever . . . he would leave it. Such a silly and subtle thing only served to prove how ineffectual and unobservant his brother truly was, and that was something he could always appreciate.

 

Someone had been in his room, that much was obvious. _Mufasa_ had been in his room. It was just so ridiculously evident that Scar almost pitied his brute of a brother, but – considering how Mufasa had been blessed with a handsome façade, brute strength and popularity – he refused to give into foolish sentimentality and feel a remote ounce of sympathy for the man that had raided his belongings. Scar was meticulous in his room’s organisation, and – so far – he had found so many things out of place that it was not even funny.

 

His bedcovers were perfectly smooth as always but no longer tucked, his curtains were still closed but there was a centimetre gap between the two pieces of fabric, and many of his personal items were somewhat in subtly different positions. It was a very admirable attempt at a search and raid, but Mufasa was a fool if he thought someone like Scar would keep anything incriminating in such an obvious place as his bedroom. He was tenacious in his ability to plan and act, he knew exactly what to show to his brother and what to hide, and so he religiously made sure to delete his messages, erase his computer history, and to leave any physical evidence with his acquaintances rather than at home. Whatever it was that Mufasa was looking for he wouldn’t find it, that much Scar could say for certain, and besides . . . he was being watched. If Scar overreacted or displayed any irritation then Mufasa would know. He would _know._ He would be as good as confessing if he so much as displayed an iota of frustration with his infuriating brother, and yet -! Would it not be equally as suspicious if he displayed no anger at all? Well, he would just have to take his chances.

 

Scar let out a long sigh and threw his college bag down onto the floor. He could already hear his brother’s voice criticising his indifference towards his belongings, his uncaring attitude towards the dust in the room, but truthfully he saw no reason to care for such trivial and mediocre things. This room was merely a stepping-stone. It was a temporary refuge for him to reside in until he took the thing that really mattered. One day he would have it all . . . he would have the house, the business, and the _power_ . . . and then moments like these would be nothing but a memory. One day he would be the one to have the power, one day it would be _Mufasa_ at the bottom of the food chain clawing his way up . . . one day he would make his brother _suffer_.

 

There was a strong and heavy scent of cologne from across his bedroom that alerted him at once to the presence of his older brother, forever inferior in the art of camouflage and subterfuge, by the seems of it he was hiding behind an ornate screen that separated Scar’s four-poster bed and sleeping area from the rest of the room. The screen was a work of art in itself. It was aligned along his desk, so that one could work whilst another rested without being seen or distracting the other, but as the two brothers had their own rooms – and as Scar slept alone – it was there solely for aesthetical reasons as opposed to any practical purpose. Regardless, Scar adored the way that the screen was carved with intricate tribal patterns and beautiful tableaux of lions in their natural habitat, and through the small holes in the patterning he could catch a glimpse of the dark and shadowy figure of his brother. Surely he was not even attempting to hide? If he was then he could have clearly sat down so that the solid blocks of wood would have hidden him, or perhaps he could have sat on the bed and drawn the bed-curtains, but to just _stand_ there . . .

 

Well, his brother always was the arrogant one. Why even _try_ to hide when you can just as easily announce your presence, admit that you raided and searched a man’s room, and then bask in your own over-inflated ego? He would never be punished for his actions, whereas Scar would be forced to suffer over and over in his brother’s place, and his brother couldn’t care less. Just so long as Scar suffered, not him, then all was _right_ with the world.

 

“Have you been waiting long, brother dear?”

 

Scar smirked as he watched his brother step from behind the screen. He always admired how the older man walked with such confidence and strength, his back always straight and his stride always long and powerful. It was admirable. He had all the perfect body language and natural charisma that any politician would envy, and yet he lacked certain street smarts and an awareness that would have _truly_ made him great, but – as it was – Mufasa was all brawns with no brain. Scar had followers, too. Scar had many people who would kill for him, _die_ for him, and _not_ because he was physically strong, but because he had the _intelligence_ and gift of rhetoric that his brother lacked. It would only be time before he proved just who of the pair was truly the most superior.

 

Mufasa strode into the centre of the room purposefully and gracefully, moving slowly and with such consideration that it was as if he saw life as but a stage, walking as if walking to address an audience, as if to command attention. His broad shoulders filled out his suit perfectly, giving him a rather blocky appearance that only added to his masculine features, and as he stood he did so in such a manner that he appeared to take up the space of the entire room, demanding respect even though he had not yet said a word. His face was an expressionless mask. It was only his reddish-brown eyes that expressed his frustration, those eyes the colour of fallen autumn leaves that narrowed into a look of distaste, and around those eyes the skin crinkled to express a man that was fast moving into middle-age. His thick red hair was loose about his shoulders, wild like a mane, and it was so healthy and luxurious that he appeared to be like the typical expectation one had when one thought of a modern businessman; he was someone who could be free, liberal, and wild, yet still maintained dignity, professionalism, and respectability.

 

“You are late, Scar.”

 

Ah, yes, Mufasa . . . man of few words, or at least when the mood took him. He only hoped there was not a lecture coming, his brother was such a _fan_ of sentimental philosophy and guilt-trips, he would rattle on and on as if the world cared what nonsense he spouted, telling tales of ancestors and kings and the stars above, and all the while he would expect his audience to listen enraptured, when really it was all that they could do to stay awake. Mufasa felt like a broken record. If Scar had to listen to one more lecture on morality, one more foolish story about how their grandparents watched down on them from the stars . . . if life were a film then Scar would have _gladly_ hit the fast-forward button at those moments.

 

“So I am,” Scar replied.

 

He tried not to look too closely at the golden-brown suit his brother wore. Did he truly think that he looked good? He looked ridiculous. He was no different to the hundreds of other men that went into his brother’s building day in and day out; each one trying to maintain that sense of decorum and perfection that was built into the uniform code, and each one trying to outdo one another as they strived to look more handsome and beautiful than each man that came before them. What did they think of Scar, he wondered, did they think him as ugly as he felt?

 

Scar sloped further into the room, keeping his green eyes focused on his brother’s figure. He knew better than to ever look away from a potential enemy, Mufasa was far stronger than he was, should the older man ever choose to take his younger brother head on then he would be defeated most gravely. Scar merely watched the older man and headed towards the slightly partitioned off part of his room, as he moved he did so with each foot directly placed in front of the other, a rather feminine trait he would admit, but somehow such a walk felt far more natural to him than a typical masculine manner of movement. He had always been teased for the swinging of his hips, the way he appeared to walk as if he strove to walk along an invisible line, but he knew how enticing such a walk could be. It made him look more casual, it made him look weaker, and it made him look feminine . . . not only did no one see him as a threat, but it was so easily to distract the weaker minds with the sensual movements, as if his movements suggested at something more sexual, at something more to come.

 

He shed his coat as he walked, allowing it to slide from his shoulders and drop to the floor in a rather careless manner, as he reached the bed he allowed his long fingers to stroke along the nearest poster, his fingertips tracing the carvings in the darkened wood, his eyes never leaving his brother’s as he continued the rather suggestive action. He didn’t stop until his hand encased the poster and began to stroke upwards and downwards. A dangerous growl escaped Mufasa’s lips, almost as if he sensed that his younger brother was mocking him, but Scar merely carried on with his dangerous smile and tilted his head slightly to one side.

 

“Come now, brother,” Scar said softly, brushing a hand through his raven coloured hair as he spoke softly in his typical drawl. “I am _surely_ excused just this once for being late? It is not as though I have a _reason_ to come home, is it? I merely have a few pieces of homework to do. I don’t have the responsibilities of managing a large company . . . _yet_.”

 

“The responsibilities of managing the company will never be yours, Scar.”

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t say _that_. If you neglect to have an heir then I’m sure such responsibilities would fall upon my far more capable shoulders, but you are such a family man . . . I suppose my day will never come.”

 

Scar realised the implication of his words. If Mufasa was to produce an heir then that heir would inherit should his brother die, not Scar, but for Scar to inherit the business would mean for his brother to die before his time . . . to die before an heir could be born. It wasn’t that he _wanted_ Mufasa to die, but his brother was simply so infuriating and inferior! It was _Scar_ who was studying business and economics at university, and it was _Scar_ who had an innate grasp of psychology and rhetoric, and it was _Scar_ who had wanted the business more than anything.

 

It simply wasn’t fair! Mufasa was always the favourite child, the one who only had to ask for something in order to get everything, and whilst the family fussed and fawned over him it simply felt like Scar was always left in the shadows, left to watch from the darkness as his brother was thrust into the spotlight. Their mother still pushed Scar to achieve his best, telling him that one-day his time would come, but what did she know? She would always be second-fiddle to the ‘king’ of the house, the master of all who resided in their less-than-modest family home, and just so long as their father had the wonderful Mufasa to run the business and inherit from him when the time came then he had no need for Scar. Scar was just the spare . . . the heir and the spare. Their father forgot his very existence, Mufasa’s new girlfriend treated him like a lost cause, their mother piled all her neglected hopes onto his shoulders . . . Mufasa saw him as a lost soul whose duty it was to bring back into light, to help grow and to nurture, and it was Mufasa who always had such undying faith in him. It was misplaced faith. Why wouldn’t Mufasa just give up? Why did he think Scar was anything more than what he was, just an intelligent teenager who was at the shallow end of the gene pool as far as looks and strength went? His brother was a fool.

 

Scar drew in a deep breath and reached down to grab the hem of his brown, polo-neck sweatshirt. It took him only one swift and quick movement to pull the article of clothing over his head, exposing his chest and back to his brother’s roaming eye, and as he threw the sweatshirt to the ground he could see his brother’s chest heave heavily in frustration, the urge to clean up after Scar’s messes almost too much to bear. Scar merely smiled at his brother, trying to ignore the hideous stinging around his eye, but he managed to hide his pain well and instead swayed and swept to the far corner of the bed, gracefully undoing the far curtain so as to allow it to fall.

 

One by one he let all the curtains fall . . .

 

He wondered how he looked in the dark room, the only light being that from the hallway that seeped through the open door and the moonlight that shined through the gap in the curtains. He imagined his brother checking over his brown skin for any new markings; skin the colour of melted milk chocolate, so pure and rich that it reflected all the admirable and beautiful races that had gone into creating the two young brothers, skin that Mufasa always loved to taste and feel, almost as if it was as sweet to taste as it so appeared. It was only a shame that Scar was so thin and frail, his height at least several inches shorter than Mufasa’s, and his body so slight that should he lose any more weight his ribs would surely begin to show. He would never have the tough, masculine, muscular build of his brother, but he still liked to think he was somewhat handsome as far as his body went. His face was ugly, he knew that, but he liked his body . . . even if it made him weak.

 

“Don’t ignore me, Scar. Don’t turn your back on me.”

 

Scar knew better than to respond to that. He knew that with one sarcastic word or warning phrase that his brother would see it as a personal challenge, that he would actually go so far as to instigate a fight, and – even though Scar could hold his own – he knew that he would never win in a battle with his brother. If it was as easy as throwing a well-placed punch to put Mufasa in his place then he would have tried long ago, and he would have failed many times over in the process. No, the easiest thing to do would be to ignore his brother today . . . he was in no mood for fighting or dramatics. It was better to ignore the bait than to allow himself to be hooked.

 

“I wouldn’t _dream_ of turning my back on you, Brother,” Scar said softly, already beginning to pull upon the buckle of his belt as he spoke. “ _I_ know better than to ignore a potential threat when I see one, but I also know when it is best to ignore a potential challenge.” He managed to undo his belt and slid it from the hooks of his trousers. “I can’t ever ignore _you_.”

 

The bitterness in his voice was only emphasised by the physical pain he felt surrounding his eye. It was hard to ignore. The cut that ran down from his beautifully arched and sculpted eyebrow went quite far down onto his cheek, it was still red and raised as if it hadn’t even begun to heal at all, and his only consolation was that the cut had not touched his eye in the slightest. If he had only been an inch closer to his attacker, or if his attacker had felt more vindictive, then he may have lost his eye altogether or at the very least been blinded. It would scar, but at least he would be able to see. Mufasa, however, did not view the event with the same optimism.

 

Scar glared at his brother who refused to lower himself to such basic displays of emotion, instead he merely watched Scar with a rather disinterested gaze, hiding his feelings behind a mask of indifference. Scar responded by undoing the button to his trousers and allowing them to fall. He was clad only in his underwear, and as he stepped out of the fallen garments he toed off his shoes and socks in the process. He could feel Mufasa’s eyes narrow and watch him intently. He knew that his brother was extremely passionate, that he had a wild and untameable nature hidden beneath his cool and controlled exterior, and he knew that Mufasa liked to dominate all that he came into contact with. That was not to say his was violent, no . . . his _darling_ big brother would never be violent except in self-defence, but when it came to Mufasa he just commanded respect and expected submission by all those around him. It was probably that natural need to dominate that was the cause of such conflict between the pair over the years.

 

“I suppose you’re still angry with me,” Scar stated simply. “Is that why you’re here? You wish to _punish_ me?  Well, I am never one to shy from a challenge when one presents itself, if you wish to abuse me or use me then I won’t disallow it . . . after all, I _can’t_ stop you, Mufasa. We both know that this _weak_ and _frail_ body hasn’t the strength to defend itself against the sheer brute strength of my older brother.”

 

Scar found his body freezing in fear as his brother stormed across the room and took a hold of him firmly by his upper arms. Mufasa’s grip was so strong that Scar could feel his dark skin beginning to bruise underneath those thick fingers; it felt like a cruel and burning embrace, his skin sore and aching, and as much as he wanted Mufasa to let him go he knew better than to fight him. He knew that this was all part of his brother’s desire to be in control, and he also knew that by his own relinquishing of control he was in a far better position to gain what he wanted. Let Mufasa hurt him, it would only reinforce his brother’s belief that Scar was weak, and the weaker he felt Scar was then the less of a threat he would see him as.

 

“Do you have _any_ idea what you did, Scar?” Mufasa said.

 

His voice was calm, eerily so, but the very act of how he threw Scar down upon the bed displayed a great amount of anger and rage. Scar’s black hair fell about his face, blocking his green eyes for a brief moment so that he couldn’t see all that was about him, and he felt oddly prone and vulnerable as he lay sprawled upon his side. He pulled himself further up the bed so that he was lying fully across its centre, and then rolled over onto his back so that he could see Mufasa completely.

 

The older man stood at the edge of the bed, his large hands wafting the curtains away from him so that they fell behind him, almost framing him . . . adding to his majesty in a strange and surreal way, as if they extended from him, as if they were a part of him, as if Mufasa had control of even the inanimate and lifeless world around him just as much as he had control of his family and business associates. His chest was extended like a bird of the wild, almost as if he sought to garner attention, and his head was high and his gaze was deep and penetrative. Scar watched him as he loosened his tie, watched him as he undid the top few buttons to his shirt and slid off his jacket, and as he watched him he could feel a deep and dark churning in the pit of his stomach. It was a sense of revulsion and fear. He hated himself for allowing someone he so despised to touch him, but he also acceded to the fact with a bitter reluctance and understanding. Some things were just inevitable, this was just one of those things, Scar knew that better than anyone.

 

“You disappoint me,” Mufasa said calmly, shedding himself of his shirt. “Are you truly so jealous of me that you would risk your own life just to spite me? That gang could have easily killed you; why did you lead me there? Do you truly think me so egotistical that I would risk my life in a fight over something so trivial? The leader insulted me, but it was foolish to try and instigate a fight over that.”

 

“I know,” Scar said, a dangerous smirk pulling at his lips. “I was an envious bastard. I may have gotten the idea from some close acquaintances of mine . . . they had the idea that if I led you to such a place, that if I allowed the leader to insult you, that you may get into a physical altercation. I was under the impression that if you were badly injured, humiliated and mortified, that Father may see you as the pathetic weakling of a man that you really are. I saw it as my chance to get what was owed to me. You owe me everything, Mufasa.”

 

“You could have been killed! You were lucky that I came back when I did, because if I hadn’t then you may well have been . . . it makes me glad that he cut your face as he did. I hope that every time you look in the mirror that it’ll remain a physical reminder of your own foolish pride, of your own stupidity, and I hope that it’ll remind you to never act in such a manner ever again.”

 

“Hope is the last refuse of the hopeless.”

 

The growl that escaped Mufasa’s mouth was so powerful, so dangerous, that it cut through Scar like a knife. It was a primal sound, something so dark that it spoke volumes of rage and violence that only the wildest of animals could possible comprehend and endure, and it made Scar feel physically sick in his stomach. A cold wave of dread washed over him. He felt his blood drain from his skin, his face feeling oddly hot despite how pale he no doubt appeared, and his head felt so light that he could barely concentrate. He deserved credit for refusing to shiver or cry or even reject his brother’s advances, but Mufasa had always been the ‘alpha male’ and he knew better now than to fight things. It was easier to play along than it was to argue.

 

Scar watched as Mufasa crawled onto the bed. He could feel the mattress dip and move as his brother crawled above him, and as the bed curtains closed behind him the very last ounces of light vanished into oblivion . . . it was a cold and horrid feeling, as if he was being absorbed into the night itself, locked in his own private hell, but at the same time it was rather comforting. It was comforting to know he had managed to exert _some_ control over the situation, whether he could control what was to come or not. He at the very least could control the darkness.

 

He was beyond grateful that he had closed the bed-curtains, the very last thing he wanted was to see that gloating and grateful face above him twisted in pleasure, and gloating was exactly what it would be. That face was etched deep into Scar’s memory and subconscious. He would never forget it, no matter how much he would want to, and what he hated most of all was how his brother would always look so condescending, so enraptured, and so full of pride . . . Mufasa would never outright laugh or mock, but it was plain in his every expression that he took pleasure in the control he had over his brother – over everyone for that matter – and that he enjoyed the power he had. Scar did _not_ want to see that face. He would turn his back on Mufasa whenever he felt it was safe to, usually in the company of his brother’s business associates when his brother could not resort to extreme measures, but any time he did not have to look at that face – that face that had stolen so much from him – was nothing but pure bliss. His brother deserved nothing, and one day he would steal it all from Mufasa the way that Mufasa had stolen it from him.

 

Scar listened to the sounds of his brother undressing above him. He hated the way that the bed constantly felt as if it was moving, almost like being at sea where it was impossible for one to keep steady, and every time Mufasa moved he caught the heady scent of cologne that overwhelmed his senses. There was the occasional grunt of frustration emitted from his brother, and once or twice he felt slight grazes of knuckles upon his skin as Mufasa struggled to remove his clothing and accidentally touched against his brother’s flesh. Each and every touch made his flesh crawl and his body tense considerably. There were times when he could almost enjoy what happened, pretending in the darkness that it was someone other than Mufasa caressing him, but today his anger was at a livid peak . . . today he could not forget that it was Mufasa touching him, he could not forget his disgust.

 

In a matter of seconds he could feel his father’s favourite child pressed against him. He was already completely naked; Scar could feel his brother’s erection pressed against his own boxer-clad crotch, although it was only half-hard . . . it was warm and solid, an ever-present reminder of the act that was to come, of the intimacy that they both shared. It was in a way rather arousing to know that – even in the dark – he could arouse Mufasa to such an extent that his brother felt aroused and excited to be near him, that he wanted Scar sexually, and yet it was also terrifying . . .

 

“It seems that Daddy’s favourite wants to go slow today,” Scar mocked.

 

He wasn’t sure why he said it, after all it wasn’t often that Mufasa went slowly and gently, just enjoying the feeling of their bodies pressed purely and naked against one another, but for some reason he felt such anger and rage that he felt obliged to antagonise that man above him. He knew that Mufasa was furious, it was easy enough to bring out that rage at the best of times, but with him already being so enraged it would perhaps be enough to push him into a violent heat, to cause him such inflamed passions that he would take Scar to the point of breaking him.

 

Scar was a coward. He would admit to cowardice, to hating pain and fights, but at the same time the act between them was so much easier to endure when Mufasa _was_ violent. If his brother was inflamed with rage then he was more likely to act out of lust alone than love, and that Scar could handle. He did not want Mufasa to _love_ him. He wanted Mufasa to _trust_ him, that was necessary in order to take his position at the company from him, but he could not – _would_ not – want the older man to _love_ him. The love of a buffoon was never something he could want. Scar knew well that love and trust weren’t mutually exclusive, but that did not mean that one automatically meant the acquisition of the other. Mufasa loved him, _unfortunately_ , but he did not completely trust him . . . Scar would have to work very hard to gain his trust, and – as far as he was concerned – he could begin that by giving into his brother’s feral demands, by ceasing his pathetic attempts at self-defence. It was far easier to trust someone who _appeared_ to trust you.

 

Mufasa growled loudly at Scar’s insult. The younger man knew _exactly_ what angered his brother, and accusations of favouritism – the implication that he didn’t achieve his position in the company through skill alone – infuriated Mufasa more than anything. He hated any challenge to his authority, any insult that insinuated he was less than perfect, and so the change in his demeanour was instantaneous; his previous gentleness was now replaced by that anger which lay dormant in his soul, causing him to burst out into a violent temper. Scar smiled rather warmly at the change, just so long as he played along then Mufasa would be contented.

 

He had to wince somewhat as his elder brother grabbed him harshly by his hair. He could feel those thick fingers wrap deeply into his long, black hair, the pulling sensation was so severe that he could feel his scalp burning and he hissed loudly in pain, he suddenly had lost the control he sought so much in his life to gain, and as Mufasa tugged hard upon his hair he was forced to move his head backwards and bear his neck to his brother. It was a horribly vulnerable pose.

 

It was hard not to react. He wanted nothing more than to push hard against Mufasa and throw him off, or to scratch or claw at his brother until he was as scarred and cut as Scar was from his fight with those gang members, but he maintained every ounce of self-control that he had. He let Mufasa take control. It was not worth all the violence and pointless fighting that would occur should he _deign_ to assert his own rights, and so it would be best to let his brother do as he wished and try to exact revenge at a later date, using his brains rather than brawn to make his brother suffer greatly. He would not let his brother get away with using him like this, but – at the same time – he knew there was nothing he could do to stop it. So when Mufasa yanked his head back, when Mufasa roared in frustration, when Mufasa tried to prove his worth by taking his brother sexually . . . Scar merely let him. It was better in the long run and – if he could not stop the inevitable – it was best to lessen his suffering in whatever way he could.

 

“A friend of father’s asked me a question earlier today,” Mufasa said gruffly, his hands teasing the waistband of his teenage brother’s boxers. “He asked me if I loved you, you . . . you who causes so much trouble and rebels so strongly. I couldn’t answer him. In all honesty I adore you, but it frustrates me to see you throw away all your potential, to cast aside your talents. I expect more from you, Scar.”

 

“So how _did_ you reply? If you think so lowly of me as our father then I doubt you have much to say at all, he breaks his promises so easily . . . trying to obtain the love of a man like that is like trying to hold onto water with your fingers.”

 

“He has responsibilities and duties, Scar. You forget that there are more important things in the world than yourself, that the world would still revolve without you, and that – although Father loves you – sometimes he has more important matters to attend to. If you must know . . . I told our father’s friend that it was my duty to protect you, and that I would defend you to the death. I would kill for you, die for you, and as my brother you are more to me than my own life. I hate the way you act at times, but I love you, Brother. Do not doubt my love.”

 

Scar gasped in surprise as his brother let go of his hair to move his hand down to join his other at the waistband of his underwear, and – in a few precious seconds – had pulled them down and off from Scar completely, leaving him utterly nude and vulnerable. He daren’t look down lest somehow, in the darkness, he see his own length exposed to his very eyes. He didn’t want to see his own vulnerability. He didn’t want to be forced to acknowledge his own weakness and his own dependency on the mercies of his brother, and yet he had a morbid curiosity to see more, to _know_ more, because it seemed like a blasphemy to live in such ignorance, to pretend that such events were not occurring. The event would occur whether he wanted it to or not, but he could not allow himself to be ignorant. It was comforting in a way . . . the more he knew the more in control he felt, the more he could detach himself, and yet it was not enough. It would never be enough.

 

It seemed that his brother’s definition of ‘love’ just happened to coincide with Scar’s definition of ‘dominance’, because no sooner had the deprived his brother of his clothing did he begin his exploration of his body. Scar could feel his rough and calloused fingers touching his body, stroking him and caressing him much like one would to do a lover, and yet there was a slight feeling of detachment there, almost as if he was merely going through the motions, like a puppet pulled by invisible strings, acting without feeling, feeling without understanding . . .

 

His brother moved his hands up and down along Scar’s body, making the younger man hitch his breath as his brother touched areas of him that were surprisingly sensitive and always had been. He could feel those fingertips light and yet firm upon his stomach muscles, then how they trailed along his chest where – lying down – his ribs felt rather prominent underneath exploring digits, and finally they came to rest upon his upper chest, touching his nipples as if he genuinely thought that Scar could feel pleasure from such foreplay. There was – admittedly and unfortunately – an arousing feeling from having his most erogenous zone played with, to have it teased and touched, the fingers tracing the pink soft skin around them before pulling and flicking them in alternating motions, and – although he hated it – those fingers managed to pull from him some physically enjoyable sensations. He hated himself for beginning to feel the slight tug of arousal, but there was nothing he could do to prevent it, although he felt somewhat nauseous and sickened by his own body’s reactions. His brother’s mouth kept low, residing at his abdomen, kissing him and suckling at him . . . what enjoyment could Mufasa get from such an act? Did the very attempt at arousing Scar arouse him in return?

 

Even after all this time it still felt strange to feel that hot, rough tongue upon his stomach. It was such an intimate act, one that Mufasa absolutely adored . . . so much so that even when his brother _wasn’t_ screwing him into the mattress he still enjoyed such intimate actions. Mufasa always liked to nuzzle against Scar when they sat beside one another watching television, or sneak up behind him in the kitchen and lick a long line down his neck, and when they were alone . . . intimate . . . he would suckle at Scar’s nipples, suck upon his inner thigh, or merely lick every inch of skin. Scar couldn’t stand such feelings, but he could never help how his body would react.

 

Today Mufasa seemed content to use his hands to play with his brother’s chest whilst his mouth worked to lick and suck upon his stomach, occasionally swirling his tongue within his bellybutton or nipping along his inner thigh, carefully avoiding any contact with his genitalia as he did so. The bites were hard enough to leave little marks and bruises on Scar’s dark skin, but not deep enough to leave indentations or draw blood, and for some reason . . . despite how Scar hated pain . . . those painful nips combined with the playing of his nipples only helped to boost his own growing erection.

 

Why was Mufasa being so gentle? He was angry at Scar for having risked his life, and angry at his brother for having spoken back against him, and usually that sort of thing would have left the older man in a fury, so that he would take Scar almost brutally, and yet he was going so slow still, moving so gently and carefully that it was almost as if he was ‘making love’ as opposed to mere ‘fucking’, and it left Scar feeling rather angry himself. He did not want to be made love to by his own brother. He had never ‘made love’ in his life, and the very last thing he wanted was for Mufasa to pretend like this was something other than what it was. Didn’t Mufasa have a girlfriend, a fiancée even? Why couldn’t he do this with _her_? Why couldn’t he take someone gently who wanted to be taken in such a manner? Why did he have to do this to Scar?

 

Scar hissed out as suddenly his brother engulfed his length within his mouth.

 

The sensation was so acutely abrupt that it had taken him entirely by surprise, and as an expression of that same surprise he had made a rather inelegant noise and gripped instinctively at the black sheets beneath him. He could feel the smooth and cool sheets crumple in his grip, the thin material bunching about his body as he gathered it higher up the bed, and at such a sight and sound Mufasa seemed to revel in pleasure. Mufasa clearly misinterpreted such actions as being those of desire and want, and short of kicking the man there was nothing Scar could do to convince him otherwise.

 

He could feel Mufasa sucking and tugging at his length in a rather expert way. If it wasn’t for the fact Scar had experienced first hand those miserable failed attempts at giving oral sex in their first few encounters, he may have easily believed that Mufasa had been around with a fair few males, after all it was impossible for any man to be so good at such a task without much practise. Mufasa, of course, _had_ practise . . . he had Scar to do with what he wanted when he wanted over a large span of time, and so he had not only learned all those little tricks that made common whores into expert escorts, but he had also learned all the little things that _Scar_ liked and disliked, and he was able to use those to his advantage. He pulled his hands down to grab a hold of his brother’s legs and pulled them apart, spreading those legs to get better access to the hidden treasure that lay between those sweet tasting limbs. His lips created the perfect vacuum, his throat caused the most delicious constricting sensations as he deep-throated his brother, and his tongue knew exactly the right places to trace and touch. It was as if he sought to create heaven in hell itself, an unendurable pleasure in a tolerable pain. Scar hated Mufasa for it.

 

He hated himself more than anything, even though his hatred should have predominately been aimed at his wretched brother. He hated how he was now fully erect. He hated how he couldn’t help but let out groans of pleasure, little choked and staccato sounds that were so high-pitched that it robbed him of his masculinity. He hated how his hands clenched so hard into the sheets that he was afraid they would tear, how he could hear his heart pounding so loud in his ears that the flowing blood sounded like the crashing waves of an ocean, and he hated how hot his skin felt . . . how even though he wanted to cry and scream and beg for Mufasa to stop that he couldn’t, and all he could do was to feel the pleasure, pleasure that he did not want.

 

Just as he thought he might reach his peak Mufasa slowed down and slowly began to stroke Scar’s inner thigh, moving in slow and gentle circles as if trying to soothe him, and as the nineteen-year-old came down from his ever-increasing high he began to realise just what those movements meant. It was as if Mufasa sought to comfort him, to calm him, as if he wanted to ease something to come, and as his mouth slowed down to a very gentle pace his hair began to tickle Scar’s skin intolerably.

 

It was then that a long finger came from the side of the opposing thigh and began to tease his hole. Ah, yes, now they had reached the crux of the matter, now Mufasa tried to distract his baby brother as he took what he wanted, as he stole some pleasure for himself at the sacrifice of some of Scar’s own enjoyment. There was no lubrication, but then again there very rarely was . . . sometimes when Mufasa wanted it to be ‘special’ he would use lubrication and condoms, usually he would make do with saliva and good preparation, and on the occasions when Scar had been ‘bad’ he would take him dry with minimal preparation, leaving the cleaning of the semen, sweat and blood-stained sheets to Scar to deal with. He knew that Mufasa would want to punish him by hurting him, but at the same time the older man could never bear to hurt him too much, he ‘loved’ him and this was an expression of that ‘love’. He would force Scar to enjoy what was to come. He would make Scar hate him.

 

Scar bit his lip hard as he felt that finger press into him. It began so teasingly, just a gentle rubbing along that thick circle, teasing those muscles that were tightly pressed to a puckered point, but then he had begun to slide inside . . . Scar knew from experience that to relax as much as possible, and strangely that by pushing out, he could let the finger in much easier, but it still felt disgusting inside him.

 

Mufasa would be able to feel each ridge, the soft and conversely hard inner walls, and yet the knowledge that someone could know him so intimately . . . that they could know everything about him inside out . . . it terrified him. He hated most of all knowing that the one person to know him in such a way was the one person he despised most of all, and he hated himself for allowing it, he hated himself for being so weak. It forced him to constantly move forward. He would get stronger, he would take down Mufasa, he would one day be the one to put his brother in his place, and he would _make_ his brother suffer in doing so. He would use this experience to make himself stronger. He would become strong. He had to.

 

The finger inside him was uncomfortable at first, but not painful. He could feel it twist and turn inside him, moving as it sought to find that one spot he despised most of all, and – just when he felt as if he would empty his stomach of its contents, disgusted with himself – he felt another finger enter him, stretching him. In the absence of lubrication there was an ever so slight burn, but the mouth upon his now half-erect member distracted him . . . his erection was wilting, but it seemed that merely inspired Mufasa all the more to search for his prostate, and – soon – he had found exactly what he was looking for . . .

 

Scar let out a loud and rough howl as those fingers pressed so deftly against his prostate gland, his mouth still working elegantly upon his length, and he was so close that he had to bite deep into his lip – enough to break the skin and cause himself to bleed – in order to hold back his impending orgasm. Mufasa seemed pleased with this and pulled his mouth away. He scissored his fingers a little and then slid in a third, it actually caused Scar to cry out in pain as he felt torn slightly, but Mufasa ignored him.

 

It was then that Mufasa tried to kiss him . . .

 

“No.”

 

“No?” Mufasa asked, his voice breathless and thick with lust.

 

“What shall I say? ‘Oh goody, _please_ kiss me with the _same_ mouth that just seconds ago was on my own very cock?’ You _must_ be joking.”

 

Mufasa let out a loud laugh, almost as if Scar’s sarcastic answer amused him, and then bent down to kiss and bite upon the column of his brother’s neck. He seemed intent on giving Scar a love-bite, something that would force Scar to hide it using polo necks and high collars, and he would bite quite harshly at times only to follow it with loving caresses of his tongue and gentle flicks of his fingers against that pleasure spot inside him. It was the strangest mixture of pain and pleasure. Scar refused to move his body, refused to push his brother away or pull him closer, and there was nothing he could do but to let his brother finger him and suck upon him.

 

“You never were one to get dirty,” Mufasa mocked.

 

Mufasa removed his fingers and spat into his hand. Scar kept his eyes shut, even though he knew that it would be impossible to see anything in any case, but Scar knew what his brother was doing . . . he was coating his length as best as he could with saliva. He knew what was about to happen. He knew what he was about to endure, but he could not find his voice to object . . . he hated Mufasa; he wanted to mock his brother, to object to what he was doing, but he could do nothing but shut his eyes and clench his eyes and try to ignore all outside stimulus.

 

It was impossible to ignore the pain, though. Mufasa slid in an agonising inch by inch, his right arm resting alongside Scar’s head as he grunted and groaned, as he pushed inside so slowly that Scar felt as if he could feel every stretch and tear. He was grateful for what preparation there was, he was grateful that his brother had stretched him just enough to accommodate the size of his girth, but with the lack of lubrication the friction and stretch was too much to rightfully bear. It burned. It felt unnaturally wide, like being cut into two, but somehow there was just enough stimulation for it to actually be endurable, like a faint glimmer of pleasure past all those layers of pain, and – despite the situation – Mufasa would reach for his member, playing with it and teasing it, giving him pleasure despite the pain. He felt sick with himself as he felt the pre-come slipping from his slit, feeling the pleasure build within his abdomen, and all he knew was that he refused to shed a tear. He refused to show weakness.

 

Mufasa began a quick and rough pace, _finally_ demonstrating his frustration and anger in his almost relentless and powerful movements, his thrusts were well aimed so that each one seemed to strike Scar at the perfect angle. How was it that a thrust so bruising, so burning, could feel so enjoyable also? Scar knew that he lacked any form of masochism whatsoever, but he still enjoyed the act . . . he enjoyed what Mufasa was doing, how could that be? His brother’s grip upon his penis was becoming erratic, his pumping fast as his own thrusts, and Scar could feel his brother’s other hand by his head stroking and pulling at his hair.

 

Scar could feel his inner walls begin to flutter around the invader inside of him, and as Mufasa moved and grunted that boiling feeling inside his stomach grew stronger and stronger, each thrust sending shivers down his spine. He hated the way a warm sweat broke over his body, despised how his own throat issued out gasped and choked breaths, and the deep cut down his eye seemed to throb in time to his own racing heartbeat. A few seconds later . . . he came.

 

It was such a weak feeling, but the way it washed over him brought him a momentary feeling of relief. He could feel all the pressure inside him build into one point, only to be violently ejected from him in one go, and as that relief came he could feel the hot and wet come splash across his chest in a large spray. The shame of having come to something he so despised then followed. It made him feel guilty, _dirty_ , so that he wanted to scrub away his own semen and scratch away the top layer of flesh, he wanted to rid himself totally and completely of Mufasa’s touch, he wanted to be pure again, to be clean, and yet Mufasa was still pounding within him, taking pleasure of him, and then . . . he roared his own climax. Suddenly the pounding stopped, only to be replaced with a sickening feeling of burning heat within his rear, and he knew – he _knew_ – that his brother had came inside him.

 

After a few seconds Mufasa pulled out and got to his feet.

 

Scar would have felt offended as his brother pulled back the nearest bed curtain and fluttered around finding his clothes, but in all honesty he was just glad that his brother was going. He would be able to call his friends and meet them later, to pretend that everything was fine and normal, to make plans with them about his brother’s eventual downfall, to feel superior in their less-than-intelligent presence, and he could forget – for one moment in time – that _this_ was what his life was about. It was then that Mufasa threw a shirt at him, causing him to glare at his brother.

 

“Get dressed, Scar,” Mufasa said, dressing quickly. “Do not forget to apologise to our father when you see him. No doubt the story of your confrontation with the gang members, and how you obtained that scar, will have been circulated into the papers by now. You owe it to Father to apologise and at least show a modicum of remorse.”

 

“Is that so?” Scar said with a dark smile. “Then you wish me to bed him, too?”

 

Mufasa glared at his brother in absolute disgust. The look of venom in his eyes was clear even in the darkened room, those golden-brown eyes burrowing deep into Scar’s skin as if he sought to burn his baby brother with that accusatory state, and as he stared his brother’s aura seemed to emit a heavy sense of offence and horror. How strange it was that to bed one’s own father could be a mortal sin to the very man who chose to bed his own brother? Scar had to wonder where the line was in Mufasa’s perverse moral codes. What made one so wrong and one so right?

 

Oh, sometimes he thought that he would confess their sins to his father. He loved to mull that potential conversation over in his head, wondering how disgusted and pained their father would be, how heartbroken and devastated that his own sons could do something so sinful, and then to know that it was not a reciprocal process . . . his love for Mufasa would be utterly destroyed. His brother would lose all that honour, respect and integrity that he had sought so hard to obtain, and he would lose everything, and everything would become Scar’s. It was a foolish dream, a foolish idea to even think that their father would care . . . Scar had tried to speak of their sins in the past, but Mufasa was the favourite and the favourite was not capable of such horrors. Scar had been punished twice that day. His father had hated him for speaking so ill of Mufasa and Mufasa had resented being told upon.

 

Scar merely continued to lie down and watched his brother as he dressed, until – at long last – Mufasa left without saying a word. It was a stark reversal to their usually situation, because more often than not it would be Scar who turned his back upon the elder man, not the other way around, but he had offended Mufasa, had he not? He could not help but be somewhat pleased that he had hurt his brother’s sensibilities, after all _he_ was the one with the physical bruises and the cut rectum, what would one little insult hurt?

 

Out of a strange sense of instinct he found his hand reaching for his scar . . .

 

He had been foolish indeed to try and instigate a fight between his brother and a pathetic, local gang. It was a silly idea that had been inspired by his friend’s suggestions, but it had backfired dramatically . . . what he needed was a way of truly taking away every thing that Mufasa had, of making it so that there was no real way of ever getting it back. Scar deserved justice, he deserved everything that his brother had, and he wanted to square things with Mufasa once and for all . . . to take all that injustice he had suffered and to square it so that Mufasa suffered infinitely more than he ever had. If he didn’t think that death was too merciful he might have even planned for his brother’s death, but that was a last extreme . . . he couldn’t risk jail.

 

The scar on his eye would be a constant reminder to think before he ever acted again, to plan his actions with more forethought than he considered himself capable of, and it would serve forever to remind him of what _Mufasa_ was capable of. If it hadn’t been for his brother then he would never have been cut, he would never have been scarred, and so it would serve to help him to never forget . . . it would push him into action, force him to get his revenge.

 

He hated Mufasa, and the scar he had obtained would forever remind him of _what_ exactly he owed his brother . . . he would get his revenge. He would get exactly what he deserved, and his own reflection would attain to that fact, it spoke volumes more about what would happen than his own mouth ever could.

 

Mufasa would pay.


	2. To Be King

# To Be King

 

 

It was one word, but it was one word that held much meaning. Mufasa had always felt the chains of society and family pulling upon him since the day he was born, and it had not been easy to fight the pull of his father’s expectations whilst his own desires pulled him in other directions. He was obliged to his family for their support and unconditional love, obliged to the company for the responsibility he held over it, but what obligations did he hold to himself?

 

People thought that being company director was a license to fun: something that came with great power and control, something that came with luxuries like a fast car, easy women, and money to burn. The image of the eighties director in his Armani suit and with the glory of his employees had faded somewhat in the recession, but even though he had his detractors who saw him as ‘taking’ when he should be ‘giving’, as being on the same scale as the ‘slime’ who ‘stole from the state’ simply by accepting benefits – albeit on the other end of said scale – he still strove to do well by his employees.

 

He would never turn his back on his company. He would sacrifice his own pay cheque to make sure that they still were able to receive theirs. He would even do it all with a brave smile, and why -? It was his obligation and duty. He would not be here were it not for his workers and so he would be a hypocritical leech to turn his back on them now. They were all connected in this. That was what being a director meant.

 

Scar would never understand that.

 

It was a shame; they were brothers and kin, and so they shared an unbreakable bond that no one could steal or shake, the foundations so strong that they would uphold the brotherly bond eternally. That was the ideal. He sometimes felt like the foundations were an illusion, that the seemingly shaky relationship was even more dangerous than it felt, and that any day now he would find it reduced to rubble, wondering where it had all gone. They were just so different . . . _too_ different.

 

It could be summed up as thus: ask the two brothers to describe in one word, just one, the definition of a high-ranking job such as ‘company director’ or ‘vice-president’, and the answers would speak for themselves. _Responsibility_. _Power_.

 

Mufasa saw a duty to give and improve for the sake of those beneath him. Scar saw perks that were owed to him and that he deserved, people beneath him to be moved like pawns in a game of chess. Mufasa liked to say that neither belief was ‘wrong’, but – deep inside – he knew that he was the man for the job. Scar had the lion’s share of ‘brains’, whereas Mufasa had ‘brute strength’, but sometimes sheer intelligence wasn’t enough when the sheer work ethic, basic human psychology, and practical managerial skills were all lacking. He wished Scar would understand that.

 

“Scar,” Mufasa said, breaking his train of thought. The sarcasm in his words to come was subtle, but not so subtle as to be lost upon the brother to whom he addressed. “You must learn not to play with your food.”

 

His voice was deep and strong. He had always been complimented on his voice, especially by Sarabi, because it had a deep and rolling timbre that could stop even the loudest of arguments in its tracks with a mere word. The tone he used professionally was unmoving, solid as stone, and sometimes a little clinical, which many – like Zazu – commended him for. It was this voice that he used now.

 

“Put him down, Scar.”

 

Scar growled rather audibly, although the tone itself was somewhere between a moan of frustration and a smothered scream. He wasn’t like Mufasa in this respect either, because Mufasa would be the first to admit he would rather let out a full-blown roar when angry than a half-felt growl, and perhaps that had been inbuilt into him since childhood. The idea of the business world as a jungle, each businessman a predator seeking to sink its teeth into the flesh of young upstarts, and if Mufasa wasn’t strong – wasn’t quick to show his power – he would potentially lose what mattered most. He had to be strong to protect those he loved. He had to protect them all.

 

His brother’s hand on Zazu’s neck loosened at once and the small British man dropped to the ground spluttering and choking. Scar merely rolled his eyes and slinked his way across the office to sit casually in a leather chair, legs crossed and outstretched as he opened a book to read its contents. He didn’t seem to care that he had just violently assaulted Zazu; in fact he even seemed indifferent to being caught. Mufasa would have to have serious words with him.

 

“I am sincerely very sorry, Zazu,” Mufasa said gently. He helped the short man to his feet and brushed off his shirt for him. “If you would kindly look past this behaviour I will see to it you are compensated later.”

 

“No need, sir. I know what it’s like. There’s one in _every_ family.”

 

Mufasa held back a smile as he saw the dark look Zazu sent Scar. It caused Scar to smile rather menacingly in return, lowering his head just slightly enough that his long black hair fell forward to shadow his face and hid his green eyes, and with a dangerous smile he opened his mouth wide and made a biting motion, clicking his teeth together. He looked rather insane, dangerously brutal, and Zazu visibly flinched and turned away with a slight pout. The poor man, Mufasa thought with a sad smile, just had his feathers ruffled and was now being mocked for it. Scar had to learn not to treat people this way.

 

“If I may,” Zazu said with a polite bow, “I have to get back to the morning reports.”

 

“Of course, please, be my guest.”

 

Zazu nodded and quickly made his way out of the office. The man was rather short and stout, so that when he walked he seemed to move side-to-side in a slightly less that dignified manner, and yet he carried himself with a grace and charm that made it impossible for even the coldest of men to mock him. He walked with his chin high, his beak-like nose raised so that he often seemed to be looking down on those around him, and yet this was not arrogance, – no – it was pride. 

 

This was what Mufasa lived for. He lived to see the inner strength of his employees, the way they would proudly and confidently state their company name as if it were a badge of honour, and the way that – despite their flaws – they worked towards perfection, because they felt that the company was a company worth working for, worth _upholding_ the standards of perfection for. Zazu carried himself well, and he didn’t let little mishaps like these set him back, instead he used the experience to push himself forward, to better himself. His mother had once acted as personal assistant to the previous director, and when she retired Zazu had taken over from her, and it was partially for her sake that he strove to achieve the best. He wanted to live up to her reputation. He wanted to also make the company proud.

 

It was simply frustrating that Scar did not have that same pride in his work. He seemed to slink around and treat his position as a birthright, something that was owed to him by Mufasa and could not be taken away. He was also known for socialising with less desirable elements. He had once taken great pains to set Mufasa up in a gang fight, to smear his name with mud, but that had backfired and Mufasa had hoped his brother had learned his lesson. He hadn’t. He shirked off fundraisers, corporate events, and even his own nephew’s christening. He just didn’t learn.

 

Mufasa waited for the door to click closed before he strode across the room to his little brother’s desk. The black-haired man was now filing his nails with complete disinterest in his surroundings, his spectacular green eyes filled with a dull and empty emotion that detracted from their beauty. He could not even bring himself to look at Mufasa. It was highly disrespectful.

 

“Scar, I wish to talk to you about your treatment of our employees.”

 

“Ah, ‘ _our’_ employees?” Scar bore his teeth in a snarl and threw his nail file against the table with a rather violent gesture. “You finally decide to _mingle_ with us commoners and yet your royal highness still tries to pretend as if we are _equal_? Don’t try to pretend you are one of us, Mufasa. You will _never_ be _my_ equal.”

 

“You are mistaken,” Mufasa said, his patience wearing thin. “We may be very different, with one’s strength being another’s weakness, but difference does not equal inequality. If we worked together – _combined_ our strengths – this company would be stronger than our ancestors could ever have imagined. Our father, our father’s father, they were all powerful men, stars in their own right, and I think that they would want us to work together, as brothers and as colleagues.”

 

“Let’s not beat around the bush, _brother dearest_. You want something.”

 

Scar leaned back in his chair and threw back his head. It was such a casual and relaxed pose that it was far from appropriate for the office, and Mufasa had a strong feeling that he only adopted such a pose to say aloud – in a way he could never verbally – that he would not be constrained by _Mufasa_ in the slightest. If he wished to lay back, hands clasped lazily on his stomach as he licked his teeth, then he would, and _Mufasa_ could not stop him. It was frustrating, but it at least it was not a direct challenge of Mufasa’s authority . . . no, Scar always stopped just short of _that_.

 

There would no doubt come a day when Mufasa would have to face a direct mutiny. If his brother had been so adamant on flouting the rules, on ruining Mufasa’s reputation, then he would not give up on his mission of usurpation so easily. The only worry was that Mufasa knew his brother well, and his brother was – for all intents and purposes – a coward. Scar was only willing to act if there was no doubt at all of success, and even then he often acted from behind the scenes to be sure there was someone on the forestage to take the blame if anything failed. He would never directly challenge his brother. If he did there would be a risk of failure, a risk that no one would back him up, and so he would rather lurk in the darkness and stab Mufasa in the back, when Mufasa could do nothing to defend himself.

 

“I know you wish to do me harm,” Mufasa said with complete honesty, “but it is my wish that we fix this broken relationship between us. What am I do with you? If you would just tell me how I can make this better.”

 

“I was first in line,” Scar said darkly. “Your job would have been _my_ job, then the little _hairball_ was born and suddenly it’s ‘goodbye, Scar’. Can you make _that_ better?”

 

“You can not speak about my son that way.”

 

“Really? I forgot, I must bow and curtsey and the very _mention_ of the brat.”

 

“Enough, Scar!”

 

This was why Mufasa was concerned. Scar had never been so verbally _aggressive_ before . . . sure, he had been scathing and sarcastic, quick to make little comments to make known his emotions, whilst never crossing a line, but to outright insult his own nephew, his own _blood_ -! Scar was too bitter, too jaded. He would end up hurting himself or hurting those around him, and Mufasa loved him too much – despite everything – to let that happen.

  
He also loved his son too much to let anyone – even his own brother – insult him. It was a line that could never be crossed. Simba was precious and innocent, a newborn babe with an innate curiosity and strong resemblance to his father, and it was Mufasa’s hope and dream to teach his son everything that his father had once taught him, to let his child carry on the family line and the family business. He could already picture Simba’s graduation, the smile on his face at his wedding to Nala, or the day Mufasa’s first grandson was born and placed in his arms. Simba was destined for greatness. No one would disrespect that.

 

If Scar’s recent descent into lethargy and rebellion was a result of his inheritance being taken from him, then so be it. There was nothing to be done. Scar would have to man up and accept his place in the company, a place that was not at the head, but the right hand, the hand that would support their future leader and raise him into greatness. Scar needed to accept that. He needed to accept it or – at the very least – learn to hold his tongue. Mufasa’s patience was wearing thin.

 

Mufasa walked around the desk and took a firm hold of Scar’s chair. He spun the chair around and forced his brother to face him, before stamping his foot firmly upon the edge of the seat and knocking his brother upright. It was clear that Scar was not impressed, but he knew better than to fight against this. He simply wasn’t strong enough to fight Mufasa for supremacy or to walk away if Mufasa chose not to allow it, and so the younger man stayed put. It would have been an enjoyable moment for Mufasa, but the sudden look of shock and despair in Scar’s eyes knocked all enjoyment from him. Scar’s green eyes widened and his mouth fell into a sharp frown, his mouth pulling downwards from the corners . . . he tried to hide the expression after a split second with a nervous smile, but what had been seen could not be unseen. Mufasa had seen the fear . . . could Scar still not trust him?

 

“Temper, temper,” Scar said with anxious expression and tense body.

 

“I’m sorry,” Mufasa snapped tersely, removing his foot and folding his arms. “You _must_ understand that my job is a large obligation, it isn’t just a license to do what I want whenever I want. It is stressful, and whilst I had always hoped for my brother to be by my side – to support me – it seems you are intent on tripping me at every available opportunity.”

 

“Can you truly blame me? Hatred isn’t a spontaneous emotion.”

 

“So you hate me? Fine. Hate me, but I shall never stop caring about you, Brother. It is my duty to love you and so I shall. Do you understand that word? Duty. It is something that those at the top of the food chain must bear in mind at all times, a word that by its very meaning controls us and defines us, we need to be master tacticians and treat every subject with respect. It is what my life entails. My position is daunting one, and I must uphold tradition and honour at all costs, all whilst accepting change and respecting every employee.”

 

“You treat everyone with respect but _me_ ,” Scar snarled. “You demand I attend events that I have no interest in, you foist your son upon me as if my job is nothing more than a glorified babysitter, and you are quick to violence with me when you barely raise your voice to any other. You talk about the pressures of ruling this little kingdom you created, but I have news for you, I am _not_ one of your minions.”

 

“No, you are my brother.”

 

Mufasa sighed and reached down to take a hold of his brother’s cheek.

 

The flush of fury was evident to him, because his brother did nothing to hide his disgust at such a display of intimacy, but Mufasa ignored it. He ignored it because hatred was a wasted emotion, he would not let his brother suffer when he knew – or at least ought to know – how loved and needed he truly was. He was an invaluable member of the family. It just hurt to see the fear in his eyes, or the skip of his breath. Did Scar truly fear him that much? The past was just that: past.

 

He drew in a deep breath and knelt before Scar. It always amazed him just how professional and radiant his younger brother looked, even when he tried so hard to stamp his own identity upon his attire at the cost of conformity, and even with that scar marring his cheek – marking him for what he was and what he had done – he still exuded confidence. His black hair was thick and full, although just a tad oilier than it perhaps ought, although sometimes Mufasa had the impression this was intentional, the same way that he had never sought surgery for the scar or therapy to correct his scathing sarcasm. It was as if the darker and less approachable he was that the less he would have to endure the presence of others, particular that of Mufasa. Mufasa’s fingers traced the scar carefully and with kindness.

 

So much had changed since the day that Scar had obtained that mark, and not solely for Mufasa’s promotion and inheritance that had led him to succeeding in a position that his brother had always craved. Mufasa had married Sarabi, and not long after that Simba had been born, since then Mufasa’s very outlook on life had changed considerably, because now he was a father. His priorities had changed. It also meant that his relationship with Scar had changed also.

 

They had never been particularly close, especially after Scar’s attempted sabotage and the subsequent attack that had very nearly blinded the man, but recently it seemed that Scar was more . . . _indifferent_. Mufasa had the feeling that he couldn’t care less about Simba, almost as if the small babe were merely a talking doll, or perhaps just ‘someone else’s child’, and whilst he was never outright rude or cruel to him he seemed to be very disinterested in his life and upbringing. There had even been times where he would blatantly ignore Simba, letting the boy cry or play without any real supervision, with the excuse that it wasn’t _his_ duty to watch the boy. It was almost like neglect, except Mufasa wondered if a man could neglect a child that was not his.

 

That in itself had been worrying to say the least, and no attempts so far had been successful in building a strong emotional bond between nephew and uncle, no matter how attached Simba seemed to be to his uncle. Scar was far worse with Mufasa though. He was prone to bitter comments, outright taunts, and would even be so rude as to walk away mid-conversation. Mufasa wasn’t immune to anger, and – at times – he would roar in rage and pin Scar to a wall, demanding that if he wanted to challenge his brother then he was certainly up for it . . . but Scar would merely roll his eyes and walk away. He always walked away.

 

“You’re being _awfully_ familiar,” Scar murmured.

 

Mufasa sighed deeply and allowed his hand to slide away. “Is that a problem?”

 

“Perhaps,” Scar said despondently, “or perhaps not.”

 

Mufasa smiled sadly. The younger man, still sitting, seemed conflicted. Scar’s very pose was tense and his lips were pursed into a rather feminine display of frustration, and his green eyes seemed reluctant to make eye-contact with Mufasa, almost as if he were somehow afraid of what he would see were he to look. It was curious. Could it be that Scar felt affection after all? His brother always denied feeling any affection, but why else would he be so nervous about eye contact?

 

“It depends,” Scar continued in a cold voice. “Do you want me asking for forgiveness on my knees or begging for it on my back?”

 

Mufasa stood slowly and clenched his hands hard at his side. So that was it, was it? Why did Scar always assume the very worst? It couldn’t simply be that Mufasa felt close to his brother, that he wanted to touch him merely as a show of camaraderie and consideration, but it instead had to automatically be sexual, something perverted and far from pure, almost as if Mufasa could be nothing _but_ physical. It hurt Mufasa that Scar could never see past those touches, that he couldn’t see the love within Mufasa’s heart that compelled him to make sure that his brother was safe and well. There was no reason for him to react in such a way.

 

There had been many times where Mufasa had let his brother’s crimes go unpunished, where he had turned the other cheek at his impudence, and there had been many times where he had even jumped into dangerous circumstances to protect his sibling and keep him alive. Didn’t those small acts of kindness make up for any past indiscretions? Surely the times he had refused to bring Scar to justice proved that he loved his brother beyond anything so shallow or petty?

 

“Cat got your tongue?” Scar said, looking up at Mufasa with a curious expression. “You look at me with such fury, it is enough to make one _almost_ believe that you weren’t sorely tempted by such a proposition.”

 

“You know that I enjoy any chance to bond with my brother, but –”

 

“Ah, ‘ _bonding_ ’! Is _that_ what we are calling it now? Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” Scar said with a mocking smile. “I have to say, as much as I _do_ enjoy bonding with my dear old brother, I would much rather that we didn’t have to do this whole song and dance _every_ time. Can’t we just get straight to business? _You_ may thrill in the hunt, but _I_ find the thrill in the kill.”

 

“You seem to be relishing in this. You never used to. Why now?”

 

Scar’s flinched slightly, before his lip curled and he stood slowly.

 

It was such a cautious movement, almost like he was slinking through the air itself, and the way his body twisted and bended was so graceful and gentle that it became almost a dance, almost as if his femininity could not escape him, even in moments like these where he clearly craved for dominance. Scar would manipulate any situation he could, even manipulate his family, but he could not manipulate his own actions . . . he couldn’t hide his adorable pouts, his swaying hips as he walked, or – like now – his fluid gestures. It was amusing that a man so intent on such manipulations could fail in one key area, and Mufasa could only assume that Scar’s narcissism led him to believe that there _were_ no faults that needed correcting.

 

He seemed to be watching Mufasa, waiting for him to perhaps make the first move or say the first word, with his eyes dark and heavy, his eyes fixed on the pair that stood a foot above him. The way his lips pursed showed his frustration. Mufasa couldn’t help but wonder why one question would invoke such anger, especially such a legitimate question as the one he posed. Even when he and his brother used to work together in their youth the younger man would never instigate such behaviours, but recently . . .

 

“Tell me: why now?”

 

Scar shrugged and walked around his brother. It was a circling movement that was a blatant attempt at control, meant to force Mufasa to turn around lest he show his back to a potential threat, but Mufasa would not allow his movements to be controlled by his brother in such a manner. He would keep his eyes straight ahead, and he would roll back his broad shoulders and keep his chin high. This was the way to deal with Scar, because – like any predator – he would pounce on any sign of weakness, and he would sink his claws into any ‘prey’.

 

“Perhaps I have merely come to appreciate all that you have done for me,” Scar said a little too cheerfully. He stood behind Mufasa and finally stayed still. “What reason would I have _not_ to enjoy time spent alone with you? You are our fair leader, after all, you would _never_ hurt your little brother, just the same as I would never hurt _you_.”

 

“You are being sincere?”

 

“Aren’t I always?”

 

Mufasa turned to face his brother and looked into his mask. It was hard – as always – to see where sincerity ended and the lie began, but it seemed that for once there was a hint of truth to Scar that was so often missed. He would be honest in that he could not tell which parts were true and which were not, but to give oneself so fully to another had to imply a sense of trust and thus of love, which gave Mufasa hope. If his brother would – despite everything – give himself to Mufasa, then that surely had to mean that there was hope for their relationship, hope that they could see past the bitter rivalries and childish ‘hate’ for something grander, something purer.

 

The older man smiled fondly and allowed himself to sit down into Scar’s chair, essentially claiming the desk and space for his own as he watched his younger sibling almost adoringly. Scar always surprised him. He could be lazily toying with an employee, playing with them like one would a piece of unappetizing food, and then suddenly something like this would occur. He had been warned by others to watch his back, but it was hard to believe his brother would ever hurt him. They were _brothers_.

 

Scar smiled at the man in the chair, albeit his eyes narrowed into small slits as if fighting a darker instinct, perhaps his childish sense of possessiveness seeping through to burn inside him. Whatever the cause for that ire it seemed quickly assuaged, something for which Mufasa was quite grateful. It seemed like the younger man was actually quite enjoying the situation, or at least judging from his smile, and – as he leaned forward – his smile caused Mufasa to lick his lips in hunger. The hands of his brother held the armrests, his face was so close that their noses nearly touched, and he looked so hungry, so predatory . . .

 

“I wonder,” Mufasa asked, “are you this assertive with Ziva?”

 

“Let’s not talk about things we know _nothing_ about.”

 

Mufasa drew in a quick intake of breath as Scar nipped playfully upon his ear. It was a rather gentle and playful nip, nothing like the dominating love-bites that had been aggressively placed along Scar’s neck in their past encounters, but to feel that sharp pull and then the hot and lathing tongue against his skin . . . to feel that hot breath against his ear, the knee pressed on the edge of the chair by his own, and the way his brother then began to nuzzle against him . . . it was nice.

 

“Very well.” Mufasa took a hold of his chin and stopped him. “Then we had better get to business, don’t you think?”

 

He took control quickly, grabbing Scar by his waiflike hips and yanking him forward so that he was now forced to kneel upon the chair, and – when Scar inevitably went to sit – he pulled the man so that he was kept kneeling, with hands upon Mufasa’s shoulders and his crotch directly before his brother’s mouth. This was the part that Mufasa always enjoyed.

 

It was always infuriating that Scar would start these encounters completely limp, almost as if they were so mundane a chore that they could not stand to arouse excitement in him, but to force him to full erection from sheer skill and talent, to bring him that joy and ecstasy that he always denied himself, _that_ was what always brought Mufasa to the edge each and every time. It was almost a game now. He would start with the simple act of oral sex, using it to distract Scar from the slightly uncomfortable preparation, and then would come the main act itself, bringing them both such bliss that neither could hold back. It was a moment of sheer perfection and rarely did they deviate from routine.

 

Mufasa rubbed his nose and chin against the trouser-clad crotch of his brother. It felt so familiar, the deep and musky smell rather subtle and yet at the same time penetrating his senses, and as he began to mouth against it – sucking and licking at it through the flimsy material – he felt Scar’s nails dig into his shoulder, almost clawing at him as if Mufasa served as his anchor. Mufasa smirked and began to rub leisurely at those thighs, relishing in the almost pained hiss of breath his brother made.

 

He slowly undid the zipper and buttons upon the offending material that kept them apart, then pulled them down along with the black boxers beneath, exposing the length of his brother to him as he hungrily devoured it with his eyes. It was hard to hold back as he wrapped his hands around his brother’s behind, clenching and massaging those buttocks as he licked a long line from the black curls up to the very tip of the shaft. There was a very faint salty taste, but nothing too noticeable as of yet, but Mufasa sought to have his brother shooting into his throat as soon as possible, soon he would get the taste that he craved.

 

“Zira is a very lucky woman,” he said with a lustful growl.

 

He didn’t give Scar a chance to reply as he swallowed the length to its very base, letting it begin to grow in his mouth as he sucked passionately – lips over teeth so as not to catch – and began to lick lines up and down it, pausing occasionally to dip into the slit or to play under the head. Scar’s breath caught as Mufasa’s hand ran up and down the buttocks and backs of thighs, sometimes stopping to play with his balls and perineum, and Mufasa enjoyed every sound of response. He began to hum lightly, letting the vibrations take Scar by surprise . . .

 

Scar soon became erect. The head of his penis now striking the back of Mufasa’s throat, forcing the older man to relax his jaw and swallow consistently to fight his gag-relax, which – luckily – was hard to trigger. The hardest part of such an act came from preventing the inevitable jaw ache, and – the bigger problem of – forcing himself to swallow when the inevitable moment came to do so. He always wanted to kiss after the climax of his partner, to share with them a moment of love and affection as his lover caught their breath, and with Sarabi she always enjoyed that, saying that it was nice to feel that the act of sex was more than just physical, that with a kiss it proved that it was romantic also. Scar hated such a thing, however. He would claim that it was disgusting and vulgar, that it made him feel sick to be forced to taste himself, and so Mufasa would refrain from doing so when the time came.

 

He wanted to make Scar climax, to feel the sense of pleasure that could only come from the act of lovemaking. The younger man would always claim that it came from a need for control, but it was more than that . . . they were brothers, and – at this moment – lovers, and Mufasa wanted Scar to enjoy every moment, to share in the pleasure. It was his duty. It would be unthinkable to leave him wanting, especially when Mufasa preached the consideration of everyone from the lowliest employee to the highest-ranking official. He owed it to Scar to please him.

 

Mufasa swallowed hard, soon tasting the beading pre-come at the tip of the penis within his mouth, relishing in the shudders that ran through Scar’s body and the way he would moan and rock his hips. It was a rough and yet rhythmic movement, but the way he thrust so wildly almost made it seem as if he _sought_ to make Mufasa choke, and no doubt soon his part would be complete . . .

 

“Let me prepare myself,” Scar said breathlessly.

 

“Hmm?”

 

Mufasa hummed deeply, rising in pitch to indicate a questioning tone. He looked up to see a slight sheen of sweat appearing on Scar’s skin, and he felt long fingers wrapping in his mane of hair, tangling in his locks and pulling hard as Scar licked his lips and looked down at his brother with a lustful gaze. He moaned loudly when Mufasa trailed a finger lightly over his winking hole. It was so unlike Scar to want to display himself like this, so out of character, and it made Mufasa’s erection harden and ache to think of it.

 

“I would be honoured to give you a show,” Scar murmured, reaching down to pull his brother’s hands away. “You are my _brother_ after all, it is the least that I can do. Why don’t you prepare yourself as you watch?”

 

The older man smirked around the length in his mouth and reached down to undo his own trousers, shifting just slightly so as to pull out his erection. The relief was instant. He moaned at the feeling of cold air touching his hot shaft, at the way his own rough hand felt against the soft skin, and as he dipped his finger into the slit he moved the pre-come about and for a second sucked a little too harshly on Scar. His teeth scraped just a little on Scar’s foreskin and made him hiss loudly.

 

It seemed that Scar had chosen that moment to begin fingering himself. His rocking was more inconsistent, and Mufasa could see the movement of Scar’s arm behind his back as he began to play with himself. Mufasa could tell when an extra finger was inserted from the way Scar pushed himself to the hilt into his brother’s mouth, a low growl escaping his throat, and Mufasa could picture the way that those inner walls would be clamping down around that digit. The taste in his mouth was growing stronger and Mufasa couldn’t help but speed up his own pace upon his length, pumping almost furiously as he sucked and licked upon that weeping length, and soon he found himself forced to swallow. Scar must have struck his prostate because he was coming hard inside Mufasa’s throat.

 

Scar was always so silent when he reached his orgasm. He currently bit his lip hard and threw back his head, the hand not within his body clenched hard through Mufasa’s shirt and scratched hard on his shoulders. He thrust forward so hard that Mufasa could only swallow or choke. The taste was so bitter, so salty and waxy, but at the same time he relished in it, _craved_ it, because it showed how much Scar wanted this – _needed_ this – and he had been the one to do it. He had been the one to show Scar the ecstasy that only he could bring.

 

“If we were home,” Scar said breathlessly, “I am sure this would be the moment to say ‘take me to bed’, would it not? As it is I will settle for ‘let’s get this over with’, because – unlike you – I have work to do. I don’t have minions to pass the buck to.”

 

Mufasa ignored the blatant insult in his haze of passion. He took a hold of Scar’s hips and pulled him back just enough so that the wet length slid from his mouth, a trail of come and saliva connecting the head of the shaft to the lips of the older man. He licked his lips and looked up at Scar’s flushed cheeks and heavy breath, wondering how long it would be this time for him to become erect again, but no doubt he would become erect soon when the main act began.

 

Scar pulled his fingers away from his – what would hopefully be now _loose_ – hole. He shuffled around awkwardly in the chair so that he could successfully wrench one trouser leg and boot from his body, thus freeing himself to accurately position himself directly over Mufasa’s erection. The whole time Mufasa watched with aching arousal, his shaft feeling hot as he felt a deep throbbing sensation in anticipation of the main event, and he could not help but maintain eye contact with Scar – even if the younger man refused to look him in the eye – because Scar made the most beautiful expressions, each one so vivid and so real and so _natural_. It was as if he were coming to life. It was the only time he let his true emotions come to the forefront.

 

It was only a matter of seconds before Scar’s long fingers wrapped around his length, and then – in an agonisingly slow movement – he slid down to the very base, letting his hot inner walls clamp around Mufasa with a strength that a virgin would envy. Scar’s hand soon moved away to hold fast to Mufasa’s shoulders. It seemed that – like Mufasa – he needed to catch his breath. His head rested upon his older brother’s shoulders, his breathing heavy and erratic, and his heartbeat pounding loudly against his chest so that Mufasa could hear each and every beat.

 

“Are you ready, Scar?”

 

“Does it matter?”

 

Scar purposely clenched his muscles so that Mufasa bucked upwards, a loud groan escaping his lips as he wrapped his arms around his younger sibling and held him as close as possible. It felt so good! He could feel Scar so intimately, they were joined as one; bonded, connected, _together . . ._ it was all so perfect and he wanted more, he wanted to hear Scar make those delicious noises that only he could make, and he wanted him to rise again to the occasion and come so hard that he would be in no doubt of Mufasa’s abilities.

 

Mufasa growled possessively as Scar began to slowly work his body up and down, building a steady and firm rhythm. The way he buried his face into Mufasa’s neck . . . it was so intimate, so reassuring, but a colder part of the older man wondered if he merely did it to stop looking into the eyes of the elder, as if he sought to think about someone – anyone – else. He would have to pound such thoughts out of Scar’s head. He would leave the man in no doubt as to who was using him.

 

“Of – of course it matters,” Mufasa gasped.

 

“You’re close,” Scar said, as if that were an adequate reply.

 

“It matters . . .”

 

It was true: he was close. He couldn’t help but quicken his pace, relishing in the feel of the hot flesh of his brother who bounced upon him, the two moving in an irregular – yet so perfect – rhythm. His hands explored Scar hungrily, and as he reached down to clench upon those well-formed buttocks he bit hard upon his brother’s neck, moaning loudly as the smell of sex began to pervade the air. Scar would purposely clench around him, flexing his muscles over and over, teasing Mufasa almost painfully as Mufasa felt his pinnacle of pleasure rising, growing . . . his body felt hot. He was breathless. His heart resounded hard in his ears, the sound of his pulse overwhelming all other sounds, and soon it was too much to bear.

 

Mufasa roared aloud as he raked his nails down Scar’s sides. There was nothing but a sharp hiss from Scar to indicate that it was over for his partner, but for Mufasa the end never really seemed to come . . . it was just so good! He could feel wave after wave coarse through his body, spurt after spurt leaving his body. Scar would complain later. He always complained about the ‘little messes’, but Mufasa couldn’t bring himself to care, not when they had both just enjoyed such a pure and wonderful moment.

 

“It’s time I got back to my _other_ work,” Scar said with a sigh.

 

The dark-haired man awkwardly extracted himself from the chair, causing Mufasa’s softening length to slide out with a rather uncomfortable sensation. Mufasa shifted in the chair and reached out on the desk for a tissue to wipe himself down, watching intently with interest as Scar likewise did the same . . . there was just something about Scar that commanded attention, that demanded one observe him and watch him, and Mufasa had to admire that. In the workplace he could be a predator, but in the bedroom he was nothing more than handsome prey. Mufasa would watch him, he would memorise his body and his movements, and – even as he redressed and glared at his brother – Mufasa could do nothing but smile.

 

“Just so long as you remember your duty,” Mufasa said in half-seriousness.

 

“My duty? My duty is to the ‘king’, of course.”

 

“Of course,” Mufasa said, laughing.

 

Scar glared at him as he continued to laugh. It was a deep and hearty sound, one that showed compassion and amusement, but the sound was tinged with a sense of pride – of arrogance – as if he truly believed that the duty was owed towards him first and foremost, and wasn’t it? He was the head of the company and life was but a circle. If he were to provide for Scar and to protect him, along with the employees of their company, then he was owed something in return, wasn’t he?

 

It seemed that Scar didn’t quite see things the same way, however, or at least not judging from his murderous gaze. The younger man always loathed the idea of being beneath another – or at least professionally – but he just didn’t seem to understand that it was necessary, that he was the foundation upon which Mufasa stood, and just because he wasn’t company president did not mean he wasn’t a vital part of the company. Mufasa would endure those glares, because he knew that beyond those dark stares was the heart of a loyal brother, one who would never hurt him or betray him – no matter how much he may have done so in the past – because now there was more to their relationship, now there was love.

 

Mufasa smiled and stood slowly, admiring the way that Scar slinked about the office collecting papers with a cool detachment, his attire so perfect that one would hardly have guessed of the activities that had occurred just moments before. How was it that Scar could act so indifferent lately? He used to be so emotional after intercourse, but now he went about his chores as if sex itself was just another chore on the list. What had changed? Mufasa wondered if he had been blinded by brotherly love.

 

“Cover yourself, Mufasa. You look most undignified.”

 

The older man looked down at his exposed genitalia and laughed heartily. It was hard to be embarrassed when it felt so natural to simply be himself around his brother, because who else – other than Simba – could he just be himself with? There was no one else to share that familial affection, the brotherly teasing, or general relaxed feeling with . . . it was nice to let go, away from the pressures of ruling a company. They may have argued – even fought – but at least they were brothers.

 

Scar looked at Mufasa with a hard and curious expression, before breaking into a soft smile at the sight of his elder brother fumbling with his trousers and struggling to pull them back on correctly. It looked so childish, like a child trying to dress for the first time . . . Mufasa imagined it must have been impossible to take serious.

 

“Long live the king, indeed . . .”

 

 

 

 


	3. Shadow Land

# Shadow Land

 

It was never enough for those vultures . . .

 

No one seemed to understand the pressures of managing a company. No one seemed to _want_ to understand. It hadn’t gone beyond his notice that those who worked for him were _more_ than ready to lay claim to the credit when things went well, but when things failed . . . when they faltered for a moment . . . then suddenly their pride in the company was lost, their idea of teamwork was gone, and who wanted to take a share of the blame then? No one. It was _Scar’s_ fault.

 

Who could comprehend the pressures of running a company? It was something incomprehensible to the weakling masses, like a goldfish in a bowl trying to visualise the world at large, because those trapped by their meagre social positions would never understand what it was like to stand atop the corporate ladder. The daily meetings were more like army drills, each meeting only emphasising the failings that had occurred since the last, and the boardrooms seemed to collapse upon him and gave him the worst claustrophobia he could ever recollect having. It didn’t matter what guidelines were given, what employees were hired or fired, how the finances were handled, because – eventually – it would all turn in on itself. It would fail and he would be blamed . . . and when the press caught wind of it . . .

 

Mufasa had made it look so easy, but he had been so inefficient! The two men had such extreme and opposed managerial styles, but if Mufasa had not been willing to compromise then why should Scar? He would _make_ this company work! He would increase profits and productivity, he would improve employee satisfaction, and he would raise the company to _global_ status in a way Mufasa had never done! He would be the new ‘king’! The useless herds would no longer follow the deceased ex-president of the company . . . there would be no need . . . _Scar_ would rule!

 

Scar paced his office in a fierce temper.

 

It was infuriating and intoxicating all at once. The feel of the power coursing through his vein, a power he was _born_ for, and the chance to finally use his intellect against competitors and business rivals -! He was among the elite. He was the alpha dog, the top cat, and he revelled in his ability to effectively control the lives of those beneath him, to sculpt and create a perfect world, an ideal company! If only the company wasn’t starting to _fail ._ . . his control slipping . . .

 

They couldn’t leave him alone! He had given so much to them, he was paying their wages and _he_ was the one with the power -! He didn’t even get so much as a lick of appreciation, and it was so irksome, so tiresome, so – so . . . he needed to reassert his power and soon. If he could simply _change_ his image in some way!

 

Scar slapped his hand upon the intercom and sent out a command:

 

“Zazu! Send in Nala!”

 

If no one would respect him then he would _make_ them respect him. He was a wonder to the business world, a great man that no other could compete with, and his sheer will of force and great intelligence would prove him to be _infinitely_ more competent than his infuriating brute of a brother! Even _now_ they compared him to that inferior being! Would he ever be out of that man’s shadow? Would he ever be seen as a great leader in his own right? A change of image . . . that was all that was needed . . .

 

He looked through the window of his office to Zazu. It seemed that he was working at his desk as per usual, locked away were he couldn’t cause any trouble or instigate any strikes, but there was just something about him that Scar despised . . . he had been the man who had once whispered in Mufasa’s ear, and now he was seemingly contented to sit behind a desk. It was the only place for him. If Scar got rid of him now it would only further darken the image of him as a failing company director with a heart of stone, the morale of his people would weaken, and his efforts would have all been for nought. He wasn’t going to let Mufasa bind him from beyond the grave, he would break free of these chains and use his men as he saw fit, he would bring this company back to life and even those like Zazu would worship him at last.

 

He snarled and pulled the blinds down closed. No one would see inside his office, not today, because this would be a private discussion . . . he would attempt a vital merger, one that could not – _would not_ – fail. He stalked across to his desk and stood in front of it in order to seem large and intimidating, his black mane of hair cascading over his shoulders as he kept his green eyes trained upon the door.

 

The door opened and revealed Nala.

 

“Welcome,” Scar said as welcomingly as he could. “You are aware of why you are here, aren’t you? You _are_ one of my best employees, such a bright and glittering future ahead of you. You should be honoured.”

 

“Honoured?”

 

“Precisely.”

 

Scar signalled for her to take a seat in one of the chairs opposite him, she walked calmly across the room and slid into the chair without expressing an iota of emotion. The only emotion she allowed was a slither of suspicion. It was always amusing to see the slight slither of anger in those green-blue eyes, something seeping through against her will, and something she likely did not understand . . . 

 

She was so young, so _naïve_. She was smart enough to rest on her instincts, to know that something was wrong with the dark-skinned man with scarred face, almost like a child could tell from an old Western what gun-slingers were good and which were bad, but so far she had no real understanding of _why_ she felt such an innate distrust. It was just something she _felt_ but didn’t _know_. Instincts like that were not something one could nurture or instil, they were something one were born with, and Scar cherished such an in built talent. He could _use_ that talent. If only she knew how right she was, if only she didn’t second-guess herself, but that was the nature of reason . . . until she had proof that Scar was a ‘bad’ man, she would continue to be loyal, because Scar was the head of the company and the company was her life.

 

“Our company is on the verge of a shining new era,” Scar said proudly, his eyes fixed upon her. “I believe you know the speech, do you not? I promised you all a future littered with prizes, a future in which you’ll never go hungry, and a future in which we are all connected. I see you as a part of this future. You, Nala, are essential. I see you so full of potential, and I see you allied to my vision . . .”

 

The young woman merely raised a dark eyebrow and regarded him darkly, perhaps questioning his rhetoric or why he needed her so desperately, especially with the company all but collapsing around his heels. The business was failing. It was but a skeleton of what it once was, picked to the bones by larger competitors, and the ‘minions’ at the bottom of the food-chain seemed to be promised so many benefits without any being delivered . . . it was Nala and her colleagues who were being blamed from below for failing and pressured from above to hunt for more clients. She was sick of it, but aside from quitting there was nothing she could do.

 

“Do we share the same vision, Scar?” Nala asked, crossing her legs elegantly as she spoke. “I somehow fail to see this as the ‘glittering future’ that Mufasa once saw for his family business.”

 

“Do not speak that name to me.”

 

She refrained from commenting as she watched his reaction. He was losing his mind, slowly but surely . . . it took a certain type of man to deal with this pressure, and Scar wasn’t one of them. His long fingers clenched the desk so tightly that she was sure that they would break under the pressure, and his scared eyelid flickered as he glared darkly at her, his lips pulling upwards to reveal sharp teeth . . .

 

It was well-known at her level that mentioning previous management was a bit of a no-no, but in her opinion any manager so prone to emotional outbursts wasn’t fit to manage, and – as such – she would willingly poke and prod to get a response. She used to do it all the time with Simba growing up. The more they jibed one another, the more they play-fought . . . the more they could learn and grow and mature . . . she missed those days. She had no one to bounce off now. If she irked Scar too much he would lash out, her fellow peers thought she was being cruel rather than playful, and no one her junior could stand up to her.

 

“You seem down, my dear.”

 

“The name Mufasa pains me too,” she said with sorrow. “I lost Simba that day.”

 

“It was a tragic accident, indeed.”

 

If it was that tragic then why didn’t he sound more hurt? The way he said it made it sound as if the whole thing was nothing more than a mild inconvenience, something no more tragic than his assistant losing his notes before a meeting. Mufasa had died that day. The details were still unclear, but it seemed as if he had ran in front of a speeding car to push Simba out of the way, but Simba was never found.

 

Where was Simba now? If he was still alive, then what had became of him . . . there had been no ransom that she had known of, but as a child she had been naïve enough to assume he might have been kidnapped in order for someone else to have a child, to be raised with love, as an adult she knew better. If he wasn’t already dead then he might have been involved with human trafficking, extortion, blackmail, or any number of dark motives that involved making money or getting money from Scar, and if he wasn’t under someone else’s thumb, then what? It was possible he was struggling on the streets somewhere to make ends meet, nothing more than a runaway, but why would he turn to that? Where was he?

 

She ran a hand through her short, light brown hair. It was cropped short, but – with just a tad bit of wax – styled nicely so that it was slicked back and gave her a rather controlled and predatory look of a professional businesswoman. Her skin was creamy and tanned from her last holiday in the sunshine, and her bright eyes shone like polished diamonds in her face. She came from good blood, her parents always joking as she grew up that she’d be a perfect wife for an heir to a fortune, an heir like Simba, but that was a life not meant for her now.

 

“It comes to me that our company needs an image change,” Scar said softly.

 

“Yes,” Nala admitted, “in the current climate we are falling somewhat stagnant. I imagine not all of the blame can fall solely upon the company itself, after all the recession has hit even the toughest of our competitors hard, but unless we offer something new soon – or revamp our image – we’ll only continue to decline in this current market.”

 

“What would you suggest?”

 

“I would firstly suggest investing in a vigorous advertising campaign, to let out competitors know that we’re not dead yet and to let more potential clients see that we’re here and open for business. A change in image would also be a good idea, particularly if we return to the image of being a family business, push forward the idea of family values and concern for the masses and environment. There are some schemes we can invest in, charities we can donate to, events we can put on. I have a thorough list of ideas here for you.”

 

Nala handed Scar the papers and folders on her lap. Her cream-coloured suit crinkled as she moved, her modest chest slightly exposed as she leaned forward and forgot that – in the heat-wave – she had undone a few top buttons. Scar’s eyes were quick to notice. She felt a little dirty under that gaze, and – frankly – the man was so feminine sometimes she had always assumed he swung the other way, but even though he looked he _still_ didn’t seem to be interested. It was such a _clinical_ look.

 

“Is something wrong?”

 

“What would you say is the _quickest_ way to return to the ‘family’ image?”

 

“Quickest? There are no quick fixes, Scar.”

 

Scar frowned and threw the folders onto his desk. He didn’t have the patience that Mufasa had, the desire to listen to others or take advance from those ‘beneath’ him, and – frankly – it took a special skill in order to get him to listen . . . the trick seemed to be getting him to believe the idea had been _his_ idea all along. Nala hadn’t the patience for that. True, the papers proved outright it was her plan, but if he wouldn’t accept the idea merely because it was hers than that was his problem . . . just so long as she continued to get a pay-slip and benefits that was all that mattered. She cared for the company, but it was so different from what it once was . . .

 

She hadn’t realised she had lowered her head in pain until Scar’s hand came under her chin and lifted her face, his rough and calloused hands uncomfortable against her soft and perfect skin. It wasn’t an appropriate touch, but it was a far cry from ‘sexual harassment’, so she allowed it for now . . . one day she would leave this company, but something told her she would always look back. It was in her blood. She couldn’t leave forever, no matter how much better off she would be for it.

 

‘Remember your pride’.

 

Her mother had told her that so many times in the past few months, explaining that it may be better in the long-run for her to leave the company and search for a new path, to begin a new journey, but she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. This was her home. It had been her first job, she had even taken over the role her mother once fulfilled, and this was her only tie to Simba, her only connection to him . . . she could not forget her pride, but nor could she forget her family. This company _was_ her family. If she stood by it long enough it may again regain its former glory, but to stand by it would be to endure its rundown and broken structure . . . a shadow of its former self.

 

“I think,” Scar said gently, still holding her chin, “that a quick fix would be quite adequate and perhaps beneficial to the both of us. You’ve been looking for a promotion for a long time now, haven’t you?”

 

“I would like to think my work has been recognised. I am certainly _deserving_ of a promotion, but it would depend what strings are attached . . .”

 

“I was thinking a _merger_ of two heads.”

 

Nala snapped her head up to look at Scar in disgust. This man wasn’t only two decades her senior, but he was also Simba’s uncle . . . it would be betraying Simba’s memory and their friendship in the most brutal way imaginable. It was also offensive that he thought she was for sale. Her talent, her strength, her professional nature . . . it should have been enough, should have spoke for itself, but apparently not.

 

He didn’t even _look_ interested either, as insulting as that was. The look he gave her was more assessing than craving, more objective than lustful, and so she felt as if she were being weighed and judged. It didn’t make sense to her why he would be coming on so rather strong, why he would want her, especially when he could have his pick of any of the women within the company or – for that matter – without. He seemed as disinterested in the offer as she was. It made it seem as if this was merely a power play, an exercise in seeing how far his power extended and if he could truly obtain the unobtainable, but if it were more than that – if he truly thought Nala would give into him so easily – then his narcissism had truly reached terrifying levels.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“You could be my queen,” he said, stroking her cheek softly as he came to stand directly in front of her. “You marry me and I’ll promote you to the heights of which you could never even dream of, your career would flourish under me. I believe a wife and an heir would solve my problem, don’t you?”

 

“No! Even if anyone were to agree to that you would only be putting a band-aid over the wound . . . you need a more serious and stable plan, you need to treat the cause of this rather than –”

 

“Do you think me incompetent? This is beneficial to you. You should be grateful.”

 

She curled her lip in disgust and stood abruptly. Her worth was not tied to her job or her career, it was something innate to her and independent of other’s judgements, and as such she valued her body and potential enough to know that such an offer was a complete insult. If this were the only way to gain a promotion with Scar then fine, there were plenty of competitors who would be willing to hire her for twice her current wage, even for a lesser position. No job was worth this. He may have been ‘king’, but he was far from being her owner and possessor.

 

“You’re insane.”

 

Nala growled at him and turned quickly on her feet, her suede ankle-boots making a loud noise upon the floor as she moved with such speed, and as she moved to storm out of the office something caught her wrist. It was jarring and she was jerked back rather painfully. It was something she remembered to take a mental note of, because she would certainly report this behaviour the moment Scar let her go. 

 

His grip was firm and hard upon her, almost cutting and painful, but as she made to pull away he pulled her back . . . bringing her against him. She panicked. The very idea of being pressed so firm against a man, especially one her senior both socially and biologically, made her afraid . . . Scar was physically weak, that was true, but he was a man and she was a woman. She had never learned to defend herself, and she was certain that – if he pushed things – he could easily have his way. Zazu would have left his desk by now and the blinds were down. She felt afraid.

 

“You’ll never get another offer like this.”

 

“Thank God.”

 

She pushed hard against him, her heart thundering in her ears, but he growled and pulled back. She was trapped. His one hand was upon her wrist, the other upon her waist and trailing to the place where the small of her back met the upper reaches of her buttocks, and he seemed intent on exploring that area, even though she struggled in his grip, her fear increasing. It was horrible to be held by a man so repulsive, especially when so trapped . . . trapped . . .

 

“Let go of me!”

 

She struggled furiously against him. His grip was so strong that it was bruising her wrist, but no matter how she moved it was impossible to break free, and – as she cried out in fury – he growled loudly at her and threw her against the desk, a move so swift that it struck the bone of her back and hurt her greatly. She tried to get up but found a hard hand fast upon her, knocking her down, pinning her now against the desk by her shoulders. It was painful and humiliating.

 

This shouldn’t be happening, she was above this! She had been born to a good family, she had attended an excellent university, she had rose to ranks that most people could never achieve . . . she loved her career and she loved her family . . . didn’t these sorts of things happen to other people? She had helped in charities for women, and it always seemed to be teenage girls who couldn’t fight back or young women with bad backgrounds, and for the adult women who were so low on the food chain that their bosses assumed they would get away with it . . . she had never pitied them, but she had felt their pain and helped them as she could, always believing it was simply ‘their’ pain, that she would never endure it. She would sympathise, never empathise.

 

Now it was her turn. It made her feel weak. She hadn’t felt this helpless since Simba had died, since he was assumed dead at least, and now she was being held down as this man – this _brute_ – tried to undo buttons on her blouse and touch upon her breast. She had always felt she was a role model for women, but here she was about to be used and she hated it . . . she hated it! She hated herself most of all, but she wouldn’t let Scar win, she wouldn’t let him make her feel this way . . .

 

“ _Let go_!”

 

She threw out her hand and instinctively scratched at his face, digging her nails in as deep as they would go and marking him as harshly as possible. She wasn’t one for long nails, but she was one for manicures, and with her nails sharpened into a point the damage was pretty intense. Four long red marks appeared on his face. He cried out in anger and she shoved him hard, throwing him off her as she ran for the door.

 

 _Thank God_ , he hadn’t locked it! She quickly fiddled with the handle and opened it quickly, but she cast one last look to Scar before she left . . . if she hadn’t just been assaulted then she would have felt sorry for him. He was clutching her face and looking at her with a mixture of horror and rage, as if he were somehow afraid of her, and the look in his eyes . . . _violated_ , he looked genuinely violated. She had seen that look in the victims of assault, the eyes of women hurt to the very core of their soul, hurt to the point that ‘terror’ didn’t cover it. What had _he_ to be afraid of?

 

She snarled and threw out one last phrase to him:

 

“In case you haven’t guessed: I quit.”

 

The door slammed so quickly behind her that it jolted her from the adrenaline rush and the fear in her heart. It reminded her that there was nothing left for her here anymore, the place that was once her home was now nothing but a land cast in shadow . . . a dried up river, a broken earth, and there was nothing left . . . nothing worth staying for . . . she had to leave, whilst she still had her pride . . .

 

She would always have her pride.


End file.
